


When you're lying, and when you're telling the truth

by dev_chieftain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: as requested, more sweet not quite beyond kisses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:39:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dev_chieftain/pseuds/dev_chieftain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Castiel is cut off from Heaven, it's a little tougher to keep everyone in top shape on team Free Will. Sometimes, that means a trip to the hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The tincan sound of rain on the roof of the Impala is masked by the straining sounds of agonized breaths. Sam is off on foot to bring the cavalry, to bring doctors and medical assistance, but they have to stay alive until then, stay warm.

The windows are fogging up and Castiel’s eyes are distant, the thousand fahrenheit hot metal light behind them aimed off at the shadows of faraway trees. They are entangled, Cass cradled in Dean’s lap , back braced against the seat of the car while Dean is fastening new bandages over the gaping wound carved into Cass’s chest.   
  
“Cass,” Dean whispers, letting Castiel slump forward onto him again, wrapping both arms around him tightly. Castiel’s breath comes in short, sharp puffs, little whimpers breaking from his lips where they’re pressed to Dean’s ear. “Cass, hold on.”  
  
He’s not expecting an answer, not really, not the way Castiel must be feeling, but surprisingly there’s a little tension pulling in the body he holds, and Castiel shifts a bit, grinding his hips against Dean’s hips unthinkingly. “Dean,” Castiel murmurs, voice breaking. He sounds afraid. As he speaks, his lips brush along the shell of Dean’s ear. “The sigil— I can’t—”  
  
There is blood soaked into Dean’s shirt, and Castiel’s body is trembling. They just fought the biggest beast yet, and they lost hard. Cass is cut off from Heaven, who knows whether they’ll pull through the night, and Dean’s broken foot is screaming at him under the thinning veil of too much aspirin that he took to stay focused. Now, of all times, he shouldn’t feel like this; shouldn’t be reacting like this.   
  
Castiel coughs weakly, and pleads: “Dean— help me?”  
  
Definitely, absolutely should not be getting turned on by this. But he is.   
  
And that’s horrifying.   
  
“It’s gonna be okay, Cass, Sam’s on his way with the cavalry.” Dean actually suspects Sam will be about another hour, if they’re lucky. Sam was wounded too when he left, but not as badly as Dean and Cass. And besides, do paramedics know shit about Angel anatomy and stuff?  
  
Castiel is silent, beyond his labored breathing, for nearly a full minute.   
  
Then his lips stretch into a smile against Dean’s ear, and he whispers raggedly, “You’re lying.”


	2. Chapter 2

A faint beeping sound filters in through black unconsciousness, like a drip in a pond, shaking through him, all of him. Its regular rhythm drives him up, until his breathing comes a little harsher and the beeping sound speeds, ever so slightly.  
  
Castiel has been in a hospital before, but never as a patient. He opens his eyes, is startled by the light that halos Dean Winchester’s worried face.  
  
Green eyes crinkle at the corners with a soft smile. “Cass!”  
  
Castiel remembers everything that just happened, and surmises that he might have seemed dead, at some points, and answers, “Hello, Dean.” He thinks on it a moment, and furrows his brow. “Your foot was broken. Shouldn’t you be—?”  
  
“Shut up,” Dean interrupts, with his usual eloquence. “I’m healin’ too. See?”  
  
Comically, he points at himself— at the white clothes he’s been dressed in, contrary to his preferred taste— and shrugs as if to say _obviously_. Castiel nods in understanding, and allows himself to react, as he has seen Dean or Sam react in this situation before: relief.

That is acceptable, he thinks.  
  
“Doctors didn’t think you were gonna wake up,” Dean admits, trying to laugh it off. The underlying concern that this could have been the case does not escape Castiel’s notice, and he feels a tremendous guilt, knowing that he is so much weaker than he used to be.  
  
“I _am_ ,” he tries to pick his words carefully, “Sorry, Dean, I underestimated the demons we were up against.”  
  
“Fuckin’ right, you did,” Dean grumbles.  
  
To that, Castiel has no response; he feels puzzled, but also that perhaps he is meant to listen.  
  
Dean says nothing for several beeps of the mildly irritating machine. Very slowly— almost hesitantly— his hand clasps one of Castiel’s hands. It’s still sore, though the bones are (luckily) not broken; Castiel can’t hide the cringe of pain that shoots through him at that slight contact, and Dean flinches away, as if burned.  
  
“Sorry!”  
  
Castiel does not know what to say; he says nothing, watches Dean, waits.  
  
“Sorry.”  
  
“You didn’t injure me, Dean, there is nothing to apologize for.”  
  
Dean laughs, but it is not convincing. “Yeah, well, I was still worried. Don’t want to hurt you now, either, all right? That’s all.”  
  
There’s a long, awkward silence between them.  
  
Long, and strange, and Castiel watches Dean’s eyes, watches them flick to Castiel’s throat, his face, and away down the length of his body. He lingers on the bandaged injury carved into Castiel’s chest.  
  
Castiel draws a breath to speak, and holds it a moment.  
  
He chooses his words very, very carefully.  
  
“Dean—”  
  
Dean jerks back, as if he’s been caught doing something bad.  
  
Castiel presses on, wondering if he is doing this correctly. Things may be different on Earth than he’s been led to believe. “Right now, most things hurt. What you want to do—” He grimaces, and looks away, embarrassed to make such assumptions, muttering, “What I think you want to do—it— wouldn’t hurt. Much.”  
  
If the silence before was bad, trying to handle the severity of Dean’s shocked, slack-jawed stare is painful. Castiel tries to say more, but he can’t. He turns away, a little ashamed, and waits for Dean to explain to him how wrong he is.  
  
Instead, a fingertip touches lightly to Castiel’s clavicle, traces up it, up the line of his neck to tease at the lobe of his left ear, leaving a tingling trail of sensation in its wake. He can’t help jerking away at first— he wasn’t expecting it, and it’s sort of ticklish— but moving hurts, and letting Dean…letting Dean do that, well, it doesn’t really hurt, exactly.  
  
He looks back, and Dean winces, apologizing again. “Sorry, Cass. I’ll stop.”  
  
“No,” Castiel can’t quite conceal the irritation that catches in his throat, as he forces himself to settle again, nervous and— excited? Excited. “I just didn’t—” He makes a noise of frustration, tingling now with anticipation. “Just do it again.”  
  
Looking surprised, Dean laughs very softly. “Okay, Cass—” His fingers are a little rough, catch on the unshaven stubble along Castiel’s throat, his jaw. Just a light touch, that’s all, and Castiel is biting back a whimper. Dean catches the look in his eyes, and his smile turns molten and possessive. “Okay.”  
  
Dean Winchester’s worn and callused fingers slip beneath Castiel’s hospital gown, carefully avoiding the recently scabbed and still aching (itching) sore of the sigil that has been carved there. He seeks out and discovers Castiel’s nipples, and circles them with just the same, featherlight touches.  
  
Castiel finds that no matter how he prepares for it, he cannot anticipate exactly what Dean will do. The first time Dean pinches, instead of simply tracing the flesh with his fingernail, Castiel feels his face go hot, hears himself let out a low shout, shock warring with the sudden and undeniable pleasure that spiked through him the moment Dean started to get a little rough.  
  
“My my,” Dean murmurs, still wearing that gentle, kind smile that gets down into the deep places of Castiel’s thoughts and seems to wrap him up tight as a blanket. “I wouldn’t’ve guessed you for a masochist, Cass.”  
  
Castiel knows what masochists are; he is actually quite aware of them, though he would not have self-identified. And yet— there are things, things in his past and in general about him—  
  
And when Dean pinches again, harder, Castiel wails, his hips responding without so much as a half-thought on his part. He bucks up into the air, straining to get some friction on—  
  
“I don’t really like mixing hurt and comfort, to be honest,” Dean murmurs, and when did he stand up oh, whatever he’s whispering into Castiel’s ear, and pulling back and staring at him from so very close that Castiel can feel Dean’s breath on him.  
  
He catches his breath, and wilts under the feeling that somehow, to Dean he is a disappointment. If Castiel is honest with himself, that is what he has feared from the start.

He is almost certain he is right to fear it.  
  
“I wanna kiss you, Cass,” Dean murmurs, and drags his lips against Castiel’s lips, almost teasingly. “You want that?”  
  
Dean’s fingers are gently teasing Castiel’s other nipple now, circling the tip. Thanks to that, Castiel’s chest is tingling so fiercely it feels like his nipples are two peaks of pure electric cold tension. His hips twitch again of their own volition.  
  
And Castiel says, “Yes.”  
  
Kissing Dean Winchester is one of the most pleasant things it has ever been Castiel’s good fortune to do. He opens up and yields to Dean’s advances, and feels warm and giddy and wanted. These are the things he hopes for, lives by.  
  
Dean strokes Castiel’s cheek, and kisses him deep, and when they break apart, the smile is back.  
  
“Good,” he says, looking cocky. "Same here."


End file.
